


Hard-Fought

by speckleshell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speckleshell/pseuds/speckleshell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a href="http://yescon-asoiaf.livejournal.com/">Song of Kink & Con</a> meme.  Prompt was, "Robb/Viserys, GROWING UP TOGETHER IN KING'S LANDING FOR SOME UNKNOWN REASON IDK. BONUS FOR ROBB AND DANY MOMENTS."</p>
<p>Apologies for how wildly fucked the timeline is thanks to my age-altering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard-Fought

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dalyeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalyeau/gifts).



**I.** All along the Kingsroad, Robb thought of what Ser Rodrik had told him. _Some people are like battles. You’ve got to know which way to go about them. Do you conquer, or destroy? Do you treat? You mark ‘em careful, the King and his Court. Southron Lords know how to battle with words better than you, boy, but you show them the North doesn’t yield._

He tipped around the scroll in his hands, end over end, and wondered what exactly Ser Rodrik had meant. Were Southerners cruel, he’d pressed, and Rodrik had laughed and said oh aye, but his mother had given him a look that’d silenced him and sent him staring down at the tabletop. Her advice had been simply to be courteous to the Lords and Ladies at Court, and to write her, and to be sure he delivered his father’s message to the King. Robb knew why he was being sent without reading the message. His father had fostered with Lord Arryn, and Robb knew other boys who had been sent South in a show of good faith and trust in the new King. Rhaegar isn’t Aerys, his father had said, and from the way his voice had grown soft on the words, Robb knew that meant Rhaegar was good.

**II.** When they arrived at the Red Keep, there was a fight in the yard. Robb could hear horses and the shouts and stomps of a small crowd, and he was happy, because the sounds reminded him of home. He hadn’t thought King’s Landing _wouldn’t_ have those things - horses and masters-at-arms and shouts and dust - but their presence made the Keep feel less alien, and more welcoming.

“What’s happening there?” he asked the white-cloaked knight that had come to take him inside, and the man looked over towards the yard with a wry smile.

“That’ll be Prince Viserys’ jousting, young Stark.”

“Can I see it?” The Prince was near his age, Robb knew. It comforted him to think he might have a new sparring partner, but it made his chest ache to know it wouldn’t be Jon. Still, he and the Prince could be friends. That was part of fostering - friendships to link Houses. It would be what his father wanted him to do, and what his father had done under Jon Arryn’s care. He and Robert Baratheon had been like brothers since. _I could like another brother_ , Robb thought, and followed the knight towards the shouts and the dust.

They grew close, and Robb realized with a frown that the shouts were not of encouragement. The target in the center of the yard was untouched, and the horse at the far end stamped and shied under its rider. The prince was in full armor, though Robb couldn’t understand why; when the prince charged again, he watched his lance dip and swing away from the target, and the men in the yard howled again. Near Robb two men in squire’s clothes leaned against a table, one slapping his hands and calling bets. There was a pile of coins and a dagger to one side, and nothing on the other.

The excitement he’d felt before fell, dismayed at what he saw. Was this what Rodrik had meant about Southerners being cruel? Robb looked over his shoulder to the knight and leaned up towards him so his voice might be heard. “Does the King allow this?”

“Were he to see it, no,” the knight replied, casting an irritated eye at the jeerers. “But Rhaegar entombs himself with his Council, and has no ear for anything beyond it.”

Robb turned back in time to watch the Prince miss another target, wheel his horse about, and try again - only to nearly unsaddle himself in the swing. Bran could ride better. Yet no one offered encouragement, or shouted advice, as would’ve happened in Winterfell’s yard. Ser Rodrik would be disgusted with this, Robb was sure, and a slow anger building in his chest made him step forward and set his dagger hard on the table. A few of the men stopped mid-shout to stare, and one said, “Boy, it’s the other side you want. That’s bettin’ for.”

He thought of what his father would say, and said loudly, “Aye. One of Mikken’s best daggers on the Prince’s last joust.”

The armored figure on the horse was watching him, though through the helmet he couldn’t see his face, and Robb and the crowd waited until the Prince gathered his reins sharply and wheeled his horse around. When he charged Robb craned his neck to see - but the Prince missed again, and one of the men scooped his dagger up from the table with a, “Sorry, boy.”

Slowly the men straightened and dispersed, but Robb waited as the Prince dismounted and strided towards him, awkward and clanking in his armor, and stopped near enough that Robb could smell his sweat through the steel. There were finely wrought dragons coiled around his armor, and what wasn’t grasped by claws and jaws and great wings was scaled. “Fine work,” Robb said, unsure of what else to say. “On your armor. Your Highness.”

There was an irritated, metallic inhale from inside the helmet, and then the Prince took it off, and Robb blinked when he was presented with a glare rather than a smile. “You’re Robb Stark.”

Robb nodded, then belatedly added, “Aye. Er-- yes. I am.” The Prince was looking at him with suspicion, Robb thought, or maybe distaste. He couldn’t understand why.

“You bet your dagger.”

Robb nodded again, unsure why that became an accusation in the Prince’s low tones. Viserys let out a loud, full sigh, and then shoved his helmet into Robb’s arms.

“You’ll be my squire,” he said, and shouldered past Robb. His armor clanked and clattered as he limped away, and Robb watched him go, round-eyed, before he looked up to the knight, still waiting beside him.

“Can a ward be a squire as well?”

The knight shrugged. “It appears so. Tread carefully, Stark. The Prince is not his brother.”

_Oh_ , Robb thought, some of his fears fading as he understood. _So he’s the battle._

**III.** “If you hold it like... see, like this? Better for the grip. You get a good lunge from it.”

Viserys’ eyes narrowed, and he looked over at the master-of-arms. Santagar nodded. “Stark knows his swordplay, my Prince. You would do well to listen to him.”

“To him?” Viserys snapped. “Perhaps he ought to be master-of-arms then, for all the good _you’ve_ done me.”

Santagar’s cool expression remained unchanged, and without a return blow Viserys’ attention returned to Robb. That was the first strategy Robb had learned during the early months of his stay in the Keep - let Viserys’ strikes meet air, and he’d sheath his sword.

“Show me again,” Viserys demanded, and Robb held out his arm so the Prince might mimic his grip. When he managed it, Robb nodded and smiled.

“You’ve got it. Take a swing.”

The Prince swung his sword, then lunged towards Santagar, who didn’t even blink as the point stopped inches from his belly. Viserys grinned, and at Santagar’s deep, exasperated exhale, Robb smiled too.

**IV.** Their table was picked over; the roast was long scrapped to bone, the pies only crusts, but they’d drunk long after they’d plucked their feast to nothing, and Robb’s hand shook as he poured himself another glass. Arbor wine was sweeter than the ale he’d had in Winterfell, and he’d learned quickly that sweetness said nothing of _strength_. He hiccupped loudly and Viserys burst out laughing, some of his own wine sloshing onto his tunic.

“Can’t hold your wine, Stark,” he crooned. “I’d heard all Northern boys are suckled on bears, you know. Thought you’d be... tougher.”

“Bears, that’s-- Mormonts,” Robb said, shaking his head and smiling. His thoughts swam and swayed in his head, and he leaned on one elbow to frown very seriously at the Prince. “I’ve wondered. Long time.” Viserys arched an eyebrow, and Robb asked, “Why’s your hair white?”

Viserys choked on his wine, his laughter wet and clucking when he’d managed to swallow, and he looked Robb over curiously before he replied, “Because my father’s hair was, and his father’s before him. And it’s _silver_. Haven’t you read my brother’s poetry? Spools of silver, wintry skin, _violet fire_ \--”

“What about me then? I want fire,” Robb laughed, smiling crookedly. “What about my hair?” He felt at it, at the slim braids that tied back from each temple to clasp at the back - the Southern style for men that year - and at the rest that hung long and straight, brushing his shoulders.

“Your hair’s not fire,” Viserys sneered, but he leaned forward to roll an auburn end between his fingers thoughtfully. “More like leaves. Weirwood leaves, just after they’ve budded, but before they grow dark.”

Robb went quiet at that. He missed Winterfell. He missed the Godswood, filled with those red leaves; he missed his mother, whose hair was the same rich copper, and Sansa, who must look the same. He missed Arya and her grins, Jon with his easy laugh, Bran and Rickon trusting and small still. He wondered if his father was proud of what he wrote home in his letters; if his father would be proud if he was there now, watching Robb laugh and drink with the Prince.

_Not quite_ , Robb thought. “You’re kinder when I’m drunk,” he said quietly. There was silence and stillness between them for a moment, but hurt flashed across Viserys’ expression, and when he straightened it’d hardened to anger. “I like you all the time,” Robb continued, before the Prince could draw his sword. “So you should be... kinder, all the time.”

He realized, distantly, that it was a brave thing to say - and maybe a foolish thing too - and that he would never have said it if he didn’t have so much wine in him. Still, he was proud of it; it was something he’d wanted to say for weeks, but hadn’t known how.

Viserys’ mouth worked, biting at words that didn’t come, and then he stood abruptly, chair scraping across the floor. He stared at Robb for another long moment and then stormed out, the door flapping open behind him.

_Disarm_ , Robb thought numbly.

**V.** “The trick is to say mayhaps without anyone noticing,” Robb explained.

Daenerys, solemn-faced at ten, nodded. Behind her, Viserys quirked his lips and gave her a soft tap to the back. “You watch us first,” he said, and Daenerys slipped over to a bench beside the pond and sat, waiting and watching.

Robb stood at one end of the bridge, Viserys at the other. They hadn’t been able to find a pole without a blade attached, and so Robb held a tree branch they’d wrenched down, snapped free of the smaller branches so it nearly resembled a staff. “I am the Lord of the crossing,” Robb called, smiling crookedly when he couldn’t hold a solemn face. Viserys grinned back. “Who goes there?”

“Viserys Targaryen,” he replied. “I’ve need to cross your bridge.”

Behind him Rhaegar was passing through the gardens, Ser Arthur at his side, and their steps slowed as the King watched his brother and Robb exchange oaths. Viserys didn’t seem to notice Robb’s eyes straying; his voice carried loudly, and he seemed to enjoy their game. Rhaegar’s eyes slid to Daenerys, and he quirked an eyebrow. She smiled and rolled her lips together, and the King smiled back, and moved on.

“...and you must swear that...” Robb’s mouth stayed half-open as he thought. “That if I wear gray, you’ll wear yellow, and...” A frog hiccuped near Daenerys’ feet, and she pointed to it when Robb caught her eye. “If I command you to, you’ll eat that frog.”

Viserys faltered, puzzled, and then blurted, “Mayhaps.”

“You lost,” Daenerys called from her bench, and her brother turned to scowl at her.

“I _didn’t_. I was just--”

“You said it and nothing else,” she pointed out, and Viserys reddened.

“Do you want to try, Dany?” Robb offered, and she smiled and nodded. She was holding her hands to her chest tightly, as if pleading, and she and Viserys, sullen, switched places. “I am the Lord of the crossing,” Robb called, “Who goes there?”

“Daenerys Targaryen,” she replied, and took a small step forward. “I’ve need to cross your bridge, my Lord.”

“If I let you cross my bridge,” Robb said, “You must swear that you’ll only ever eat orange foods, that you will name _all_ of my horses, and that... you will walk backwards on my Name Day.”

Daenerys took another step forward, then another. Her eyes were bright. “I swear to you, Lord of the Crossing,” she began, and then opened her hands, and something green and long-legged leapt onto Robb’s chest.

He yelped, and then the world spun, and water engulfed him. When he rose to the surface, sputtering, he could hear Daenerys still reciting, “...and I will walk backwards on your Name Day.” She came up to the rim of the bridge and looked down at him, wet and shivering. “Did you hear me say it?”

Robb exchanged glances with Viserys, who looked as stunned as Robb felt, and his mouth moved a moment before he admitted, “She _did_ say it... but you were underwater.”

“I won,” Daenerys said, and then softer, with apology, “I’ll go fetch you dry things.” She hurried off, her skirts billowing, and Robb turned to see a hand outstretched, pale and thin, and Viserys waiting expectantly.

Robb took it, and let Viserys pull him up, and wondered if there was still a battle to be fought.

**VI.** “You’re forgetting something important, Robb Stark,” Viserys whispered in his ear, and every hair on his neck stood on end. He was flushed, they were close; unsure where to keep his hands, Robb had spread his palms against the Prince’s chest. He could feel his heartbeat through them, and no matter how slowly Viserys’ smile drew up, Robb knew he was as nervous, as exhilarated, as he was.

Foolishly, Robb had told him what Rodrik had said those six years ago, because he hadn’t known what else to say once they’d run out of breath from the fast, fumbling kisses they’d fallen to. _”He said some people are a battle...”_ His cheeks burned, but he found himself grinning in challenge instead of faltering, or pulling back. “You’ve got strategy now?” he taunted gently. “Your highness?”

Viserys’ eyes narrowed. “You haven’t defeated me. Only put off the fight...” His smile shrunk in hesitation, and he looked down between them, one hand tracing over the rippled muscle on Robb’s stomach. His fingertips snagged on Robb’s belt, and stopped, sending a flutter through his belly that made Robb swallow hard. His friend’s face was changing, flitting fear one moment, then determination, then uncertainty. Robb felt them all too.

He swallowed again, then said, “Are you requesting that I... that I conquer you, your highness?” It sounded ridiculous, and he bit his lip when Viserys’ eyes snapped back up, round and puzzled under a rumpled forehead.

“Conquer me?” Viserys stared, then snapped, “Did you think I’m the only one who’s a battle, Stark?”

With his left hand he gripped Robb’s belt, and with the other he took his jaw - not gently, but possessively, and when their mouths met Robb’s thoughts slowed to a stop. Viserys’ lips were soft, his teeth light scrapes - but it was his tongue, sliding slow against Robb’s, that made him moan. When he pulled back they were both unsteady, glassy-eyed, and Viserys wet his lips. “You won. And so did I. Fair, Stark?”

“Fair,” Robb said, and kissed him again.


End file.
